Chapter 7 #2
Faugh stops walking, turning to face me fully.
We're standing beneath one of the streetlights, and the warm glow catches the sharp angles of his face, the serious set of his heavy brows.
"He was projecting his own inadequacies onto you because witnessing genuine talent made him feel small.
This is a common behavior pattern among insecure individuals who have achieved minor status through technical competence rather than authentic vision. "
I blink up at him, momentarily stunned by the casual psychological assessment delivered in that same formal, measured tone. "That's... actually really insightful."
"I worked as a bouncer for eight years," he says, resuming our walk toward the apartment building.
"You learn to read people quickly when your job involves predicting violence before it escalates.
Martin is not violent, merely cruel. But the underlying mechanism is the same.
He attacks others to avoid examining his own failures. "
We climb the stairs to our floor, and I dig through my clutch for my keys while Faugh waits patiently behind me, still holding my portfolio like it weighs nothing.
My hands are shaking slightly, though whether from leftover adrenaline or something else entirely, I'm not sure.
I unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of our apartment washing over me—that mix of my paint supplies and Faugh's cedarwood soap and the lingering smell of whatever elaborate meal he cooked earlier.
I drop my clutch onto the side table and kick off my heels with a groan of relief, immediately losing three inches of height. Faugh sets my portfolio down carefully against the wall and shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the couch with his usual meticulous precision.
"I'm going to make tea," he announces. He moves toward the kitchen with that characteristic deliberate grace, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the doorframe as he passes through.
"You should eat something. You barely touched the gallery refreshments, and based on your current state of agitation, your blood sugar is likely contributing to your emotional dysregulation. "
I can't help but smile at that, his way of pointing out I'm a mess while simultaneously taking care of me.
He's right, of course. Between the anxiety leading up to tonight and the adrenaline crash from the Martin confrontation, I'm running on fumes and spite, which is never a sustainable combination.
"Because the gallery refreshments were sad crackers and warm brie," I counter, following him into the narrow kitchen space. "But yes, tea sounds perfect. And maybe those cookies you made yesterday? The ones with the cardamom?"
He's already pulling down mugs from the cabinet, his broad back to me, and I lean against the counter watching him move through the space with that surprising grace he always displays despite his size.
Everything he does is deliberate and controlled, from the precise way he measures loose-leaf tea into the infuser to the careful adjustment of the stove flame beneath the kettle.
"Thank you," I say again, more vulnerable than before.
The words feel inadequate for what I'm trying to convey, but I push forward anyway.
"Seriously, Faugh. What you did tonight.
.. what you said to Martin, the way you just..
. stood there and didn't let him diminish what I've accomplished.
" I pause, swallowing past the thickness .
"Nobody's ever actually stood up for me like that before.
Not like you did. Not with such absolute certainty that I was worth defending. "
He turns to face me, and in the confined space of our small kitchen, his size becomes even more overwhelming.
I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how close we're standing, how the counter is pressing into my lower back, how the heat radiating off his body seems to fill the entire room.
"You are too soft for this city," he says quietly.
His eyes have shifted, the dark brown taking on an amber quality in the dim kitchen light, and the way he's looking at me makes my breath catch.
"You let people diminish you when you should be taking up more space, demanding more recognition.
Your work deserves better. You deserve better. "
I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I'm trying. It's just... hard. When you've been told you're not good enough for so long, it's difficult to believe anything else."
He takes a step closer, and then another, until he's right in front of me, his body radiating heat and that earthy, masculine scent that makes my head spin.
His hands come up to rest on the counter on either side of me, caging me in, and suddenly I can't breathe properly because he's everywhere, surrounding me completely, his massive frame blocking out the rest of the kitchen entirely.
"You are good enough," he says, his voice rough with something I can't quite identify.
His eyes have gone fully amber now, predatory and intense, and the way he's looking at me makes every nerve ending in my body light up.
"You are talented and brave and remarkable, and I will not allow anyone to convince you otherwise.
Not Martin. Not your landlord. Not the voices in your own head that tell you to make yourself smaller. "
My hands come up automatically, pressing against his chest, and I can feel his heart beating strong and steady beneath my palms. "Faugh," I whisper, and I don't even know what I'm asking for, but his eyes drop to my mouth and darken further.
"Say it again," he growls, and the sound vibrates through my entire body.